


Disco Inferno

by TheGuyWithShitOpinions



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1920s, Conspiracy, Detective Noir, Detectives, Memory Loss, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multiple Personalities, Pre-Canon, Pre-War, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGuyWithShitOpinions/pseuds/TheGuyWithShitOpinions
Summary: Before hotels, snake-operated dirigibles, fights with news reporters and hopeless dreams, Hell stood and along with it the Ancient Lords of Hell. They stood tall and fell hard.The world is taking a great big breath. The Great War has ended and the noise of the Roaring 20s is ahead of the world, however, while the Overworld stands at a time of peace, Hell is in turmoil. The Lords are all vying for power over the throne which Lucifer can barely keep it to himself, the common demon is becoming more rebellious day by day and the worst of all? The murders. No, of course not the wacky nonsense one sees in Hell every day. Not the "bomb-shoot-stab" type. A murder of a Lord. And now, in a physical realm built upon pure malice and criminality, someone has to solve it. The cops were never here, so whom then?
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hazbin Hotel or any of its characters. So please do not sue me. I have no money. (Though I am using my own characters.)
> 
> Another Disclaimer: The first two chapters I have used up to introduce new characters. The third is where I begin mixing them in with the ones from the series. 
> 
> Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to my experiment! This is one of my first pieces of work and I must say, I am excited! While not a ship-focused story, I intend to attempt to explore the pre-modern world of Hell, before the takeovers of the 'newer' Overlords like Vox and Alastor and look into how Lucifer held his grasp over the city and how the city functioned by itself through the eyes of a couple of freaks solving a murder. I would very much like to hear your opinions or criticism on the concept and my writing, though do try to be constructive. Now, into the fray!

When one doesn’t remember anything of himself, he begins to make up stories and Floyd Merringuer was a man of stories. He loved the looks of disbelief thrown at him by the crowd when he told them of the giant crawling metal bugs crossing No Man's Land as him and his mates of the 19th Brigade jumped the barbed wire and headed into battle, heads high and the words of God Save the King on their cracked lips. He loved the times when some pretentious fool would begin mental sparring with him, poking and prodding at the story’s bloated and (most certainly) made-up sides, while Floyd would, in turn, use every possible nook and cranny he could find in his own words to fill up the missing details and completely opposing 'facts' with newer fluff, as the crowd would finally begin jeering and whistling, pushing the pompous cynic off the stage, ready to listen to the more and more stories coming out of Floyd's intoxicated mouth. And, OH LORD, he loved the status it gave him. One day he would be a brave officer leading his men into charge as they smashed through the Kraut’s defences, the other, a common private doing his God-given duty of crawling out into the line of three ("COUNT THEM, THREE!" Floyd would usually exclaim, as his story would reach its climax) snipers to save his wounded comrade. It was amazing. It was unfiltered bliss. It was bloody Godly!!! But even the storyteller (or liar, depending on who you asked) requires a crowd that will listen, that will care, that will sympathize and laugh and cry with its heroes. That's why Floyd Merringuer hated Hell...

  
BECAUSE NOBODY GAVE A DAMN.

  
The bar in which Floyd sat was called the Golden Tooth, a dingy place with dirty glasses and tired out demons lounging about after a hard day of manual labour. Or maybe it wasn’t the Golden Tooth. For all he knew, he could've stood up and walked to another point of Pentagram City and wouldn't have noticed the difference, the fog of ethanol behind his eyes was now far too dense for even the brightest of lights of the Fourth Circle's lighthouses to penetrate it. The best he could do was sit against the dirty wall and sob. While there were many reasons for Floyd to cry: his lack of memory since arrival to Hell, the distraint warrant with which Verrine's boys came to him with, the fact that he had only about 4 hours to live unless he repaid the sum of 20,000 gold coins to Belphegor (of those 20,000 he, at best, had maybe 22 if he sold his clothes) and of course, the duel he has set up with some random nobody out of the northern point of the Pentagram. However, the thing that did him in was the lack of audience. It was clear, even to his derailed mind, that there was no way he would survive further through his stories.

The Golden Sailors of the Fourth Circle had no time for stories, the Fourth Circle's sea of molten gold didn't wait, and even if they could sit down and listen, the best response they could do was to hum through the solid gold layer that covered them from head to toe and sometimes let out a clunking noise by hitting their heavy limbs in an attempt to clap. Fishing out beasts out of the metallic sea was dirty business and being covered in gold became the usual for them, so much so that many just let it stay on them, leaving it as a symbol of both their greed and their position as the creators of currency.

The Ice Miners of the Ninth and Third Circles were not there to dilly-daddle, they were here to get drunk, as quickly and as much as possible. The Third Circle, the symbol of Gluttony, was a freezing desert and anything substantially warm would be quickly snuffed out, the storms quickly tearing out and erasing any signs of warmth the gluttonous could use to at least ease their eternity in the desert. However, that was small fry compared to what the workers had to deal with on the Ninth. Yes, the lack of killer winds was a great commodity, but those who came back from shifts on the Ninth never spoke again and even when the mead would untie their tongues, the language they spoke sounded like terrified moans and whimpers rather than anything a sinner could understand. But even so, the work had to continue, the only two circles with ice were also the two only sources of water in all of Hell and without water, production of the most basic commodities would become impossible. Sinners like them needed no stories, they had their own.

And the worst of the worst were the locals, the residents of the Eighth Circle. Floyd spat and mumbled a couple of swears.

"Uninspired, slothful, vengeful, god why did you send me to this?"

Another sob came from his lips. Yes, he was fucked. No way around it. He closed his eyes, the alcohol finally reaching the stage where he finally felt like falling asleep. 

_" Oh Lord, oh Lord, what if we get stabbed when Accursed One falls asleep? They'll rob him and leave us to die in a back alley!"_ The only (little) part of his moral mind squirmed, namely, the part called Mum.

 _"Good. Good riddance. Anything better than this. Our Dear Alcoholic might as well die, considering the headache we'll all have tomorrow."_ The much stronger voice of his intoxicated mind bellowed, the name Bottlehead being brought up from memory.

"Fuck you both as well..." Floyd wasn't sure if he said that aloud but the ability to feel shame for his actions was long replaced by pure bliss of drifting into the great unknown of sleep pampered by booze.

That bliss didn't last long.

  
I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I

  
"YOU MOTHERFUCKING COCKROACH!!!"

"AYE MATE! GO AHEAD, SHOOT ME!!! I FUCKING DARE YA!"

Floyd's mind(s) resurfaced. The voices tore through the sweet spiderweb of sleep and slapped him across the face. One voice seemed especially familiar.

 _"We gotta go. We gotta go,"_ whined Mum.

 _"No way, look at this! That'll be a beautiful show!"_ Bottlehead's excitement made Floyd's body shake.

Without any hesitation, Floyd lifted his head and began to stare. The situation unfolding behind him was bizarre, even for Hell. Two sinners stood across each other, one tall and thin, the other short and stout. Through his blurry vision, he made out...

 _"Oh no."_ gasped both of his voices in unison.

The short and stout man was Verrine. Verrine, the unholy liar of Aix-en-Provence, stood no taller than a bar stool however the pastor's tunic he was wearing seemed to disguise his heels very well. His face resembled that of a pig drawn by a child. Unclear lines joined his bloated face as the scar on his neck seemed to radiate energy from underneath his three chins. The mark of death did not leave this devil powerless and that's why the poor sod across him was looking down the barrel of a Colt.

"Wait, who is the stranger?" Floyd turned his gaze to the other side of the room. The thing across the room did not have a human head. While many of Hell's denizens tended to be malformed as their disgusting misplaced sins would meld to their very physical being as symbols of their malice, the sinner across the room had no human head. Instead, Floyd's eyes were assaulted by toothy mandibles, antennas and two gigantic compound eyes staring both at him and at the rest of the room. Even the sinners clothing was unmistakenly anomalous, while it looked like a trenchcoat of a very dark shade of brown, it slightly reflected the weak lighting of the bar and seemed to consist of edges, as if he wasn't wearing cloth but ceramics.

"You cocky motherfucker!" The unmistakable click of a cocking gun came from Verrine's direction. "They'll be cleaning your insides of off the ta-" Floyd wasn't sure what happened, it was all too fast for his still shaky mind to follow but his reflexes could still pick up what was happening visually. He noticed the stranger lunge at Verrine, who seemed to have been ready for it, unloading the first shot right into the stranger's stomach while the barman seemed to yelp and fall on his side, the shot not even slowing the bug's progress. The back of the stranger's trenchcoat seemed to slide apart, revealing two pairs of yellowish wings as he suddenly leapt into the air boosting himself straight at the gun-wielding dwarf and smashing into him full-speed, the gun slipping and falling to the grimy floor with a clatter.

"Boss?" Probably one of the Verrine's thugs, a wolf-thing from the outside of the bar, attracted by the commotion, burst through the doors. 

"Shoot him! Shoot this motherfucker!" Verrine squealed. "SHOOT HIM!"

"OH FU-" It took Floyd's mind about a hundredth of a second to understand that a cylinder full of bullets out of a Tommy Gun had spread and considering the stranger's position, Floyd was about to be chiffonaded along with him. His hand reflexively reached for the glass while the thug's reached for the gun's bolt and in a mere second, the thug, hands just centimetres off the trigger, yowled as broken glass filled his face. In another half, the unmistakable noise of a shot was heard again, the thug's head split open by a single round, he slid down the wall and fell silent. Floyd looked back at the stranger. There was a third hand emerging from underneath the "trenchcoat", holding the smoking gun that was on the floor just seconds ago. The stranger turned back to the cowering mass underneath him.

"Hey, look, mon garcon, y' know I was ju-" Verrine didn't have time to finish the sentence. It was as if the stranger went in for a kiss but unlike the supposedly sounds of a pleasant act, all Floyd could hear was a scream and then sudden silence. The seconds went on with the only small sounds of resistance as Verrine's hands helplessly flapped around trying to swat the bug sitting atop him and his short legs hit the floor as a sign of faux resistance. However, it was as if the power was being sucked out of the short demon, his hits became weaker until they turned to slaps and slaps slowly decreased to motionlessness. The next noise that followed would become heavily ingrained in Floyd's brain, maybe for the rest of his stay in hell. With a slow, agonizing, wet crunch, blood sprayed onto the already dirty floor and Floyd thanked the holy stars that the bug's back was turned to him. The bug straightened back out, giving a few twitches with the back of his "trenchcoat" and released a sort of low clicking sound, but be it of satisfaction or rage, it was the scene of Verrine that caused Floyd to almost let out the contents of his stomach onto the counter.

Verrine was most certainly dead, no doubt about it. While demons tended to not die from some things that were usually considered lethal in the Overworld, this here would not be the case. Verrine's head wasn't gone but reduced to bloody shards of bone and cerebral matter. A couple of pieces of the floor were missing around the place where the small demon's head used to lay. It was crushed or eaten or both, a sort of strand of skin and hair and whatever was left seem to hang from the remnants of the neck as the blood just gushed and gushed and gushed...

The stranger effortlessly stood up and taking out a handkerchief, wiped his mandibles off the gore leaving deep crimson wet spots on the fabric. As if nothing happened, it walked past Floyd, jumping over the counter and approaching the now unconscious barman. Something human stirred in Floyd as he reached for a glass, ready to fend off the freak with shards if he had to. Anything, anything to just not hear that horrible crunching sound again. But it seemed the bug's rage was gone as he checked over the barman. The bug jumped the counter and stood up on a table.

"ANY OF YOU CUNTS KNOW A DOCTOR?"

The room froze in shocked silence, now for the second time. It may have been seconds or minutes before one of the ice miners in the opposing corner hesitantly lifted his shaking arm.

"AYE! PERFECT! GET THAT BASTARD SOME MEDS, IT MAY BE ONLY A RICOCHET FROM THAT CRUSHED FUCKER'S MISFIRE BUT HE DOESN'T SEEM LIKE SOMEONE WHO CAN BITE A BULLET TO ME!"

The stranger's roaring laughter reverberated through the room, his mandibles, still slightly humid from the blood, shaking from the "humour". The room stayed silent. The stranger's laughter began to die down and then stopped. 

"Uhhhh," he coughed, "Roight. Which one of you's is, uh", he grabbed a piece of paper out of one of the inner parts of his 'trenchcoat', "right, which one of you's is Floyd Mer-... Floyd Merri-..."

If Floyd wasn't shaking right now, he would've had a hearty laugh at how visible were the cogs turning in the bug's head. The bug's patience seemed to suddenly tear, "IF THE CUNT WHOSE NAME IS FOCKEN FLOYD DOESN'T STAND THE FOCK UP I'LL PULL EACH ON OF YE HEADS OFF!!!"

As if by magic Floyd's legs traitorously propelled him out of his stool. He wasn't sure what happened but the closest explanation he could find was the 'fight or flight' mechanism. Except, he was neither fighting or flighting. He was frozen, at most his action was actively, mentally pissing himself.

"Perfect!" exclaimed the stranger, his demeanour returning to its original state, "so you're the cunt I'm looking for! Name's Roach, nice to meet ye!" He held out his hand, well at least it looked like a hand. The whole thing was covered in hard plating, reminiscent of steel plates and instead of the usual five or four fingers, it had three. Floyd wasn't sure how to proceed, his brain was off completely and the only thing his senses were telling him was to turn around and run, however, another part of him, barely conscious and probably dying, reminded him of the need to be polite.

"My name is Floyd Merringuer, I am very pleased to meet you Mr.Roach and I hope our further dealings will be greatly enhanced by our acquaintance." 

_"Yes, overpower him with strong words, establish that you're untouchable,"_ smirked Bottlehead.

 _"Oh god, oh god, he'll get angry again."_ sighed Mum.

Roach let out a laugh that bordered on a scream, "Just as imagined ya, you detectivin' cunt! Come on, times a-wastin'." Before Floyd could even figure out why he was "detectivin'" his whole body was pulled to the exit. As both of them pushed through the narrow entrance of the Golden Tooth, Floyd could hear the whole room erupt in discussion and shouting.

 _"Oh no, oh no, I don't like this, where are we headed?"_ Mum moaned.

I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I

The GAZ-A Floyd was thrown into creaked uncomfortably under the weight as if complaining about the lack of care it received from it's (clearly) unhinged driver. Roach didn't take care to drive carefully even by Hell's standards. After the third hit-and-run, Floyd gave up on the idea of being shocked about it, instead choosing to attempt to find out more about his captor or benefactor, depending on if he listened to Mum or Bottlehead.

_"What are you panicking about? The lunatic just tore off your credit shark's head or chewed or whatever. We should honestly just focus on getting another drink and enjoy this guy. He's a bloody godsend."_

_"Shut up, shut up Bottlehead! This guy is here to kill us, he's just driving us farther away to murder us!"_

_"You seem to have no sense of how paranoid you are, Mum. Get your shit together. Our fraudulent landlord's dead! We can go back to our apartment!"_

Floyd closed his eyes, focusing extremely hard to silence both. His mind hasn't been right since he fell eight circles down. Maybe it was the impact that shook him up or maybe everyone was insane in Hell, either way, he needed silence to concentrate and neither Mum nor Bottlehead were offering it.

"Want a fag?" Floyd turned to Roach who's third hand was offering him a cigarette packet while the other two were on the wheel.

"Thanks, but I'll be alright."

"Yer loss, I rarely give out shite for free." Roach used his fourth arm to place the cigarette under his trenchcoat, into one of the openings in the demon’s chest and light it up. Floyd gave him a questioning gaze.

Roach caught the gaze. "Ye got a fucking problem?"

"No, no, I just..."

"Ha! I'm just banterin' mate! 'Course it's facking weird but this is the disadvantage o bein' a full-on cockroach demon. Gotta breathe through spiracles instead o the usual mouth. But hey, can't hang me no more!" Roach let out another monstrous laughter.

Seeing this as his chance to find more weaknesses in his captor ("or benefactor," added Bottlehead angrily) Floyd decided to continue the conversation, "What about your um... jacket?"

"Jacket? Wot jacket? Oh... Nah mate, this ain't my jacket, it's a skeleton."

"You mean exoskeleton?"

"AYE! Exactly that! They told me you were bloody smart!"

"Wait, so you're essentially nude?"

"I mean, I got pants on."

Floyd chuckled nervously, "Well, uh, what happened to the barman?"

Roach shrugged. "When the fucker fired off at me, it hit me skeleton and ricochetted into that poor cunt. He'll live." 

"R-right and where exactly are we going?"

"Me boss got a few words he needs with ye if ye get wot I'm sayin'" Roach's accent and pronunciation seemed to grow thicker and lower as they got nearer and nearer to their destination. "Actually we're almost 'ere."

_"Oh no..."_

_"It can't be..."_

Roach's mandibles moved, he was probably grinning right now. "Welcome to Leviathan Tower."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to my experiment ladies and gentlemen! The tale of Floyd Merringuer continues!

Leviathan Tower was the most exquisite building in the Eight Circle and by the opinion of many art critics that were sent there, it could even rival Lucifer's main castle itself. The Tower itself wasn't an actual commodity for life, unlike Lucifer's castles and mansions spread around the different point of Pentagram City, it didn't seem to serve as a place of rest and habitation, instead, the feeling given off by it felt like a complete show of power. The Tower itself looked as if it was made completely of obsidian however upon closer inspection one could find that the whole building was a main black marble structure supporting innumerable decorations of darkened cast iron that covered its walls that stretched for at least a kilometre in each direction. Each decor on the Tower's walls seemed to emanate spite for the Creator, a sort of display of failures. Some parts would show in great detail scenes of bloody massacres performed by Crusaders, others would meticulously recreate the debauchery and sin of the parties thrown by Popes, but nothing could compare to what many called "the Gallery". The Gallery was a collection of balconies covering the entrance of the Tower and on each Gallery stood saints of all shapes and sizes, but unlike the usual exterior of a Church, the collection of saints here were meant to be symbols of His failure. Among them stood such as Saint Julian the Hospitaller, the patron saint of murderers, Saint Joshua, a spy who drove many tribes to their demise for his faith, Saint Dismas, the thief who hypocritically received his title only minutes before his death on the cross after a life of murder and thievery, with the centrepiece of the Gallery being a complete mocking of the Apostles, Judas Iscariot himself, dressed in a long toga, exquisitely sculpted features and a crown upon his head with the words, "Audentis Fortuna Iuvat", in a sort of ironic twist. The final touch was the windows of which there were hundreds, all of them shining with the light of fires, giving the statues an ominous glow, as if they were judging those who entered.

Floyd never came to the Tower up close, but usually chuckled at its mention, the clear overkill in the decoration's department seemed to him as something infantile, the type of fortress that a savage would build, however right now he understood why the whispers of this place were so prominent, from up-close the building seemed monstrous and lumbering, as if a gigantic leach has ingrained itself in the very heart of the Eighth circle. Roach, on the other hand, seemed to be unable to contain his excitement, his hands pulled at the steering wheel and the back of his jacket fluttered as if he was about to take off into flight. The Gaz pulled up in front of the main entrance, spluttered, and stopped.

"We're 'ere." Roaches voice felt as if it was coming through a fog. Floyd wanted to hurl. Of all the Lords, it had to be Leviathan, the only Lord that could be considered more powerful than Lucifer with Belial and Satan following as close seconds. Hell, why did it have to be a Lord at all? He would've been completely fine if it was another random loan shark tearing at his pocket. 

_"We're fucked. So fucked that no unfucking can help us."_ sighed Bottlehead in an uncharacteristic moment of melancholy. Mum didn't even bother with a phrase.

"Wot are ye waiting for!? The boss's waiting!" Roach seemed to have already gotten out of the driver's seat and was staring at Floyd from the front of the car. Floyd extended a shaky hand towards the car's door and clambered out. Roach approached him, standing behind his back and putting his three-digit hand on Floyd's shoulder, grasping so hard that Floyd almost yowled in pain.

"W-what the?!"

"Now, is just a precaution." The bug's grasp seemed to relax slightly but Floyd's hand balled up into fists and a slight shake entered his knees. They approached the entrance, Floyd going first and Roach holding him from behind, a strange duo at the gates of a new sort of Hell. Before entering Floyd threw a last hopeful glimpse up, however, the small window of light leading to Heaven was now gone, replaced by Judas' jeering stare as his sculpted eyes seemed to bore into Floyd's mind. And just like that, like a drowning man disappearing under the water for the last time, Floyd stumbled into the lobby.

  
I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I

  
It was like being enveloped in darkness, a sort of veil has been dropped upon them both, the only discerning signs of neither of them being dead were the sounds. Roach's heavy breaths seemed to echo through the cavern-like inside of the Tower but unlike Floyd's light and unsure footsteps, Roach seemed to be walking with a self-assured grandness, each crashing step reverberating off of the walls and disappearing into the endless void above them. Floyd has only heard of the Ninth Circle once, from a sinner who had to collect a couple of mad workers who were now unfit for even the most basic tasks of carrying ice. The sinner's eyes seemed to fill with black oil as he told of the entrance into the last circle, a void out of which only a draft escaped as if the whole dimension was letting out its last breath, a place empty of all things, yet even without vision or hearing there was something, stirring and clawing at the walls of its eternal prison but no sound of resistance would come. It was what awaited them all after their final encore in Hell, the Gray and oblivion within it. Floyd never visited the Ninth Circle himself, however, this is the closest he could feel to it, he could feel Roach's hand on his right shoulder but some other sense dictated that this was not only the thing he was in the grasp off. Another cold set of fingers seemed to be holding him by the neck, and even if all of his senses understood that it was fiction, only that deep-rooted connection to the ancients seemed to know the true meaning, this grasp wasn't even a hand, it was the promise that each living being gave at the start of its journey of existence, the promise to end it. 

A chair seemed to sail out of the dark and along with it another, standing opposite it. It took Floyd a couple of seconds to notice that the second was occupied by... something. At first, it seemed to be a pile of rags, but upon closer inspection, he noticed that there was an unmistakeable mass underneath it, there was a slight movement that could be considered breathing, but an unmistakable sense of a lie permeated, there was no usual twitches of a happy man or the sagging of a bored one. Whatever sat before him wasn't a sinner, it wasn't demon either, an attempt to fake life where there was none, like a well-made puppet or a dead body.

"Sit down." No request, only order came through the unidentifiable being's whisper.

Roach let go of Floyd allowing him to sink in the chair.

"You may go now, Roach." The insect gave a slight bow and disappeared into the darkness. Floyd's fists tightened more, he was now alone.

"Are you Mr Floyd Merringuer of London?"

Floyd nodded, his throat too tightened to let out a misplaced pleasantry or a quip with which he usually met new acquaintances.

"And do you know who I am?"

Floyd froze up. He didn't know who this was. There was no way this could be the Lord.

"Answer me truthfully." Under order there was authority and under authority, threat.

Floyd shook his head.

"I am the greatest of all beasts created by the Rotten Creator. I am the one who brought all the angles down to Earth to be slain! I am the force that moved continents!

**I**

**AM**

**LEVIATHAN**."

  
There was no movement from the figure but Floyd felt how hard it became to breathe, the being's very presence seemed to choke him and crush him. He tried lifting his eyes however something weak inside his mind blocked his orbits from moving even a millimetre away from his shaking knees.

"Is this understood?"

Floyd nodded. 

"Good sinner. Very good," Something was gone out of that voice and with it, the pressure on Floyd's lungs as he seemed to release a sigh that he didn't even notice accumulate inside of him. It took him an unimaginable force to withhold a light sob from escaping his lips as the sudden release from pressure seemed to give him emotional whiplash.

"Sit up and look at me." Floyd pushed himself up using the rest of the remaining forces left in his limbs and lifted his heavy skull. The rags before him seized moving, Leviathan didn't want to pretend to be alive anymore. 

"Are you the detective?" 

Floyd didn't notice as he held his breath again.

"I know of you saying that you were a detective in the Overworld. I am asking if that is true."

Floyd didn’t know if he was a detective. He never did any investigating jobs, not that he could remember them even if he did. But this was the truth and he never told that in the tall tales he created. The stories where he would drag away H.H Holmes into a cell, where Jack the Ripper would confess to him while on his knees, they were just stories. But he never said that to anyone. Everyone knew him as a soldier, as an officer, as a detective. And now that his rumours and lies have dragged themselves up to the pantheon of Lords he was receiving karmic retribution.

Floyd licked his cracked lips. There is nothing to lose, nothing left. He nodded.

"Then you are now at the precipice of greatness." There was no wonder or attempt to entice Floyd. The sentence was pronounced blankly, a dry fact.

"Two days ago, there was a murder. A Lord by the name of Mephistopheles was killed by an unknown assailant. You are to investigate and report your findings to me."

This time Floyd was able to not just nod but give out an affirmative groan. 

"As I needed your complete of cooperation and attention, your outside factors were dispersed. Belphegor has received payment of exactly twenty thousand coins and you already witnessed Verrine's undoing. Your duel is right now being settled by Roach."

Floyd's heart gave out a low flutter, even in such trying times Fortuna smiled upon him.

"However, do not take these as gifts. I am investing in you and I need a repayment. A killer of a Lord is wandering the streets and along with him follows the death of the hierarchy that has held Hell together for so long. If you are to fail, then there will be no one to save you." 

Floyd opened his mouth, letting his voice out of his dried throat for the first time. "Yes, sir."

"We seem to have an understanding. Roach! Lead our guest out."

The three-digited hand seemed to descend upon Floyd's shoulder yet again and before he could even give a last look at the mound sitting in the chair across him, he felt a rush as he was lifted out of the chair and whisked out of the Tower, his consciousness falling into a stupor and shutting off.

  
I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I

  
_"Our Dear Alcoholic fucked up this time."_

  
_"Oh God, oh no, we lied to a Lord, what shall we do?"_

  
_"Shut the fuck up, Mum, aren't you supposed to be the one preserving our Dear Alcoholic's health?"_

  
_"Oh yes, oh yes, says Bottlehead, the brave, the brash, the brutish, where were your strength when our Accursed One was being torn apart by the Lord?"_

  
_"It doesn't matter where I was, we fucked up, all of us, You, Me AND our Dear Alcoholic. We must ensure that we walk out of this, the killer must fall as to preserve the 'hierarchy'."_

  
_"Oh my, oh my, how worrying yet how exciting, our Accursed One DOING tasks of somewhat importance."_

  
_"Not much of a choice for our Dear Alcoholic, but let us begin, he is being awoken."_

  
I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I

  
It was a snapshot. The Mark IV male's heavy chains trecked across the muddy fields of Cambrai, his gun turret in front of him and his comrades by his side. 

"Come on, you cock! You promised me you'd tell me about the story in Sussex! Come on, mate!" It was Rigg, the driver, his Australian accent was heavy with obscenities and slight disdain, but even the insults seemed to jump off of the commander like it was nothing.

"Rigg, look at the road! We ain't omnipotent y'know!" Shouted gearsman Beck from the behind of the tank. "Get your shit together!"

"My dear friend, if we bag more than 50 Krauts in trenches, then I will tell you every story I have in my head, but for now, do listen to Beck, this bucket won't move if you don't operate." This voice he couldn't recognize, it was as if it was coming from inside him.

"Right, right, sorry Commander." 

"Commander? Who's Commander?" Floyd said in that unfamiliar baritone that was most assuredly not his.

"You hit your head or something? And here I thought Commander Merringuer was-"

I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I_I

Something pleasantly cold was dripping down his face but he didn't have the strength to lift his eyelids and register what it was. While he did feel a small relief due to his return, an even more minuscule sense of disappointment seemed to gnaw at his heart. That dream, why did it feel so familiar, it was as if... a memory? No! That would be nonsense!

_"Welcome to the land of the living, my Dear Alcoholic."_

_"Oh joy, oh joy! The Accursed one lives again! The Neverending cycle hasn't yet run out its course!"_

Floyd tore open his eyelids with as much force as his exhausted facial muscles allowed him, his gaze now centred upon a giant compound eye staring back at him.

"The weak cunt lives!" exclaimed Roach, throwing both of his arms in the air, the canteen in his hand flying off into an unknown distance, leftovers of the water that was evidently poured on Floyd’s face quietly splashing onto the hot asphalt.

"Where am I?" Floyd noted the weakness in his voice and masked it the best he could while sitting up. Only then did he notice that he was lying on the bumper of the GAZ-A.

"What the hell happened?"

Roach seemed to deflate, his sudden happiness gone as quickly as it came, while one of his hand seemed to reach for the back of his head, while the other seemed to go into one of his pockets. "Err, sorry 'bout what happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, ye see, I didn't think me Boss, would y'know... try to mentally rip ye."

"Rip me? What do you mean?"

"Well, y'must've felt it. That feeling as if somethin' pushing ye down? You can't even look at 'im, just follow his orders?" 

"Wait, he was using magic?"

"Sorta, I guess. He sent me off to deal with ye little problem and well, when he summoned me back, ye were in a rough spot. All muttering about Mephistopheles and shite, looked like one of those Nine Circlers, morbid if ye ask me. Well, I carried ye out and drove ye as far away. I mean, the Boss ordered me to get ye out so I did what was asked."

Floyd stayed silent, his mind checking over the accumulated archives of his life’s experience. He knew of the slight manipulations done by some harlots of Hell to get customers or scare incantations used by loan sharks to make loaners sign contracts but this, this wasn't some menial charm, he never saw anyone do shit like that. It was as if his whole world was being wrung out, a complete terror and submissiveness. Whatever this mental manipulation was, he needed to stay as far away from it as he could.

He sighed and slid off the bumper, his boots making a light thud as he landed on the road, "It's fine, Roach. Anyways, I got to go. I got a case to solve."

"No worries about that. The Boss told me to help ye, so where do we start?"

Floyd eyes almost popped out. All he needed now was psychotic cockroach kicking skulls in and chewing heads off. "Ah, thank you but I think I'll-"

"The Boss insisted." The phrase hung in the air, and no matter how much Floyd wanted to say 'no' to the whole ordeal, there was honestly no choice. Now he was the same as Roach, one of Leviathan's cronies, a sinner completely indebted.

He sighed and ruffled up his hair, "Shit, if the 'Boss' says so, then so be it. Let's go. Take me to the murder scene.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please do leave a comment and criticism of my work as I require improvement!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while but all things considered, I'm back! Now that the introductions of the main characters are over and done with, we can get down to the brass tacks, the past versions of the protagonists of the main show! While this chapter is still a warm-up more and more will come into the spotlight! Enjoy!

Floyd's eyes floated pensively towards the window. There was no radio in Roach's GAZ, so the only real entertainment was conversation and staring out at the city. His look floated around the buildings and took in the details. Maybe it was just him, but it seemed that the Eighth Circle was changing and morphing into something new. While the skyline was dominated by churning chimneys for most of his stay, it was as if the Eighth was trying on a new look. Though for now subtle, his mind could still spot the small changes, the fact that some chimneys were now replaced by neon signs, that the usual brothels and shady bars were being taken over by exquisite clubs and houses of pleasure, that with each day he saw fewer and fewer demons with firearms. No, there was no doubt, Hell was trading in its dusty overcoat of the Industrial Revolution for a new shining tuxedo of a new age and Floyd was... confused.

"So where exactly did the murder occur?" Floyd said, trying to keep down the worrying thoughts of the change that was occurring right before him.

"The Angel-Steel Refinery. The poor basterd go completely ripped ta shreds in 'ere. Ye'll see fer yerself." Roach's answer was short and low as if he was tearing his words out of his windpipe.

 _"My, my, the poor bug seems unsure if he is yet forgiven."_ Mum's voice lit up in Floyd's brain.

 _"What do you mean?"_ Floyd responded to his mind without opening his mouth.

_"Oh look at him, look at him, he's all drooping, his posture is sagging, his hands are barely grabbing at the steering wheel. This bug has been affected by Melancholia, Accursed One. And from my most certain assumptions, it must be due to the guilt of your slight breakage in the Tower."_

_"Why's he guilty? I mean he straight-up murdered Verrine in-fro-"_

_"No, no, I am the one who gives the clues, you're the one to pull them together."_

"Roach?"

"Hm?" The bug seemed to shudder slightly from his name being called.

"Don't worry about what happened at the Tower, right? I'm alright and need your head in the game. You're supposed to be the one to handle the muscle of the operation after all."

"Roight." The bug's response came back in the same short style, but something was gone as if the weight was lifted off the cockroach's shoulders. He also seemed to sit up because Floyd now felt that the bug was much larger than before. "Ye got it..."

A slight hesitation in-between words, as if Roach was deciding whether to say it or not, "pardner."

Floyd smiled, Mum's prediction was right. Maybe these personalities may still have some use to them. The rest of the ride to the refinery was uneventful however the atmosphere seemed to decompress as both Floyd's eyebrows seemed to rise from the frowning expression and Roach's fingers seemed to regain some of the control over the steering wheel.

"We're 'ere."

Many newcomers to Hell tended to become very confused at the reason for a refinery, let alone of such a strange property as Angel-Steel gathered from the year's usual extermination of demons. Refinery tended to be the name for the place but it was more a smelting facility. One of the ever-present problems of Hell was overpopulation and as the prince of Hell, Belial, always said, "If the bastard up-top didn't make us so hard-to-kill, maybe we'd take care of his 'overpopulation' problem ourselves." Demons were truly 'hard-to-kill', able to withstand huge amounts of blunt or cutting force and immune to poisons, there were only two solutions to the problem, the 'smart' and the 'smarter'. The 'smart' was as simple as daylight, if smashing and tearing don't work, you're not doing it enough. But the smarter was even better, considering that Angels were using materials that can instantly kill a demon, why not reforge them? After that, it came down to technological progress. As guns were introduced in the Overworld, many demons also changed tactic from medieval blades to pistols and machine guns. The smelting of ammunition became a profitable business, after all, you only need the bullet to reach the target, the rest of the gun can be whatever other metal you desire.

The pair both go out of the GAZ and slammed the doors. The Refinery was a couple of blocks away but there seemed to be some sort of noise coming from its direction as well.

"Strange. Usually, this place is quiet." Roach's antennae seemed to twitch and direct him towards the noise.

"Well, the only good way to find out is to head there ourselves." Floyd took the first step forward but Roach stopped him instantly by stretching his hand in front of the much shorter demon.

"We gotta set sum basic rules, innit?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look at yerself! You're skin and bones, you ain't gonna handle a fight unless ye got a gun."

"So you want me to stick behind and let you handle any violent business if it occurs?"

"Aye, that's i-"

"But I handle negotiations," Floyd noted that Roach hesitated just one or two milliseconds before answering.

"Aye, sure."

"Good, now that we've got that sorted out, we still have a corpse to see." Floyd pushed past Roach's arm and continued walking. The walk was short but the tension seemed to permeate as the pair approached the Refinery and the source of the noise. As they rounded the corner of the building a strange scene unfolded before their eyes, legions upon legions of demons stood in the square in front of the smoke-covered refinery and chanted non-stop, their voices so different and out of tune that it was impossible to make out the exact slogan.

"Shit." Floyd breathed out. "Is there any back alleyway around this mess?"

"Nope, they made sure that no one burgled from here so they made only one entrance, The Main One." Roach's disappointment was pouring out of his words.

"Fuck." Floyd wiped the sweat from his brow. Nothing was going his way today, it seemed he couldn't pass an hour without another problem.

"Roach, you go first, I'll follow close behind." The giant bug wordlessly began his slow traversal through the crowd. The surrounding demons seemed to all be impoverished, their faces covered in soot and some of them holding pieces of metal..? It was strange to Floyd, why were they holding simple poles and pipes, it's not like they'd cause any lasting damage? And the colouring seemed off, it wasn't steel, Silver maybe? But who would use silver pipes? His attention seemed to be suddenly turned away by a powerful shove coming from his right, knocking him off his feet. Looking up he noticed a burly if slightly beer-bellied demon in overalls and a cap staring down at him.

 **"Are YOU one-o-tha facking slaver scum?"** The demon slurred, his eyes focused on a point far behind Floyd's head. Out of his periphery vision Floyd noticed Roach turn around and starting to progress back to him, backup wasn't far, he just had to bide his time for Roach to arrive.

"Excuse me?" If Floyd wasn't so surprised he would've probably answered something a bit more coherent however correcting himself was probably a bit too late.

 **"OH YOU SLAVER SCUM LIKE THE FANCY WORDS! THE 'EXCUSE ME'S AND THE 'WOULD YOU KINDLY'S, WELL TAKE THIS AND GO STRAIGHT TO HELL YOU THIEVING PIG!"** The demon roared, not realising the irony in his words, and raised the pipe in his right hand, only then did Floyd's brain register why the metal caught his eye. This wasn't silver, Angel-Steel. A hit from this would- Floyd's brain didn't have time to go through the whole thought process as the demon in overalls brought down the pipe on him. Time seemed to freeze.

_"Now, Dear Drunkard, what trouble has approached you this time?"_

_"Bottlehead?"_

_"At your service. Now scooch, I need to take the wheel for a bit."_

Some part of Floyd's torso and limbs seemed to surge with energy. 

_"He's going to smash your skull with that pipe in about a hundredth of a second. Now, your friend may arrive in a couple of seconds, so we can't wait for rescue. We can either roll out of the way or try to surprise him with a punch before he smashes us. Which one will it be, Dear Drunkard?"_

_"Dodge."_

_"You sure?"_

_"We can't afford to seem like the aggressors."_

_"No, no, Accursed One, the crowd may have attacked us, but in its eyes, we already are."_

_"Nonetheless, dodge."_

_"Very well, hold onto something, Dear Alcoholic."_ Another sudden surge went through Floyd's muscles, and as time unfroze he could feel how his legs pushed off to the side, causing him to tumble out of the way of the deadly force coming at his head. Even though out of the way of the strike, Floyd, now on one knee after the roll, turned his head to check what was coming next, his eyes greeted by the unmistakable front of a shoe.

_"BOTTLEHEAD DO SOMETHING!"_

_"We're out of options here, your balance is way off and there's no way you can recuperate so quickly. We can only block you from tensing up to alleviate the damage."_

BLAMF!

The shoe connected with Floyd's face causing an audible crack in his nose and dancing colourful dots to appear in his eyes as well as throwing him on his back. The demon may have been drunk, but his speed seemed unaffected by the intoxication. Floyd's mind shook off the concussion and opened his eyes. The demon has now jumped on both his outstretched arms, each foot on each arm as to stop any resistance and was prepping to take a pot-shot at his temple, golf-style.

_"Bottlehead!?"_

_"Sorry, but I ain't a miracle-maker, your body also has limitations."_ Suddenly a tearing noise permeated throughout the square. The demon above him let out a terrified scream and fell off of Floyd's torso. As Floyd pushed himself up he finally noticed, both of the demon's arms were missing and Roach seemed to be using them to beat the now downed drunk.

"CAN'T HANDLE IT, HUH? CAN'T HANDLE IT!" Roach screamed or laughed out as he continued the onslaught. Floyd looked away from the violent show, hoping not to witness another beheading. Only then did he notice how quiet it became. No more chants, no more booing, no more shouting, the rioting demons seemed to have forced a circle around them, however, there was an opening. Floyd looked into the opening to see another demon approaching them. Even from the great distance, he could see that the being was about 3 meters tall, however, its freakish height was maybe its least bizarre characteristic. The thing's head was a TV, the small screen was fit into a wooden casing that covered the being's shoulders and a part of his torso, the black and white picture reflecting an angry cartoonish face. The clothes also stood out, he was dressed very business-like, unlike the rags of the workers, he was wearing a dark blue with cyan overtones suit along with a completely black top hat. Floyd, at first unresponsive due to his concussion, suddenly seemed to pull himself together, his irises refocusing.

"Oh no." The figure passed him, heading straight for Roach, it's power crackling throughout the air.

In a desperate shaky voice, Floyd called out, "Roach! STOP! DON'T ATTACK! STOP!" But something must have snapped in the demon, he continued battering the almost dead protester while sadistically ignoring the Angel-steel pipe. The beating slowed down with the approach of the imposing figure.

"Another one!" Roach's head snapped to the side to stare at the newly arrived demon. Without warning, the back of Roach's carapace opened, the bug's wings pushing him up as he launched a deadly punch towards the tall demon's monitor. Without hesitation, the new arrival simply lifted its hand catching the punch in its claws.

"What an interesting dilemma we have here?" The new arrival replied in an exaggerated sing-song way, its hand relaxed, while Roach's tensed up. The claws gently closed around Roach's hand and forearm. Clear watery hemolymph sprayed from in-between the television demon's fingers and Roach let out a screech, trying to pull back but unable to move, like an animal stuck in a bear trap.

"Now, while we are on topic, you might as well tell me who you are?" The arrival seemed to enjoy the fact that Roach had now sagged to his knees, and was hugging his crashed arm, heavy wheezes escaping his chest.

"Fuck ye." The voice that came out of Roach's mouth was coarse. "Fuck ye and the hole ye came from, ye glorified radio."

"Glorified radio? Now that's something new. I think you'll be just a piece of art when I paint the asphalt with your insides." The television jeered as he lifted his arm to give one final strike.

_"Forgive me, forgive me, Accursed One."_

"Stop! Stop! We're Behemoth's assistants! We just need to get into the factory!" the voice that was forced out of Floyd's mouth was shaking and breaking at each turn.

_"Oh no, you don't. I ain't gonna allow our Dear Drunkard to get mud smeared all over his name."_

"And who the hell are you?" Floyd's voice now seemed to have sunk in pitch but grown in volume.

The new arrival gave Floyd a slight grin, "I'm sorry but I didn't catch your name."

 _"Steel, steel yourself, Accursed One, for if you answer first, he will be asking the questions, not you."_ Silence crept upon the square, only disturbed by Roach's defeated grunts.

The new arrival cleared his throat, "Seems like you don't wish to respond, well, let me tell you my name." The demon grabbed took of his cylinder and made a sort of bow with its torso while its hand seemed to perform a strange spinning motion with the hat after which it put it to its breast. It looked up, the slight grin unphased, "While my name may be lost to time, I am the demon of fame and infamy, the patron of all arts prohibited, the true connoisseur of culture, I am Vox."

 _"Trickster, trickster, he's trying to make you feel insufficient with that overdone gentlemanly greeting, we must one-up him Accursed One."_ Floyd felt his knee start to buckle as he felt that he was about to stand on one knee.

 _"WAIT! WAIT! Not only is he trying to humiliate us, but you also want us to do a genuflection? No, our Dear Drunkard has already suffered enough."_ Floyd felt his whole spine straighten, each vertebrae expelling intoxicating strength into his body.

"I am Floyd Merringuer, hear my name and tremble!" His voice roared and reverberated throughout the empty square, some of the demons shrinking, or even attempting to sneak away. Vox seemed unfazed, though something changed in his demeanour as if his eyes became more animated. He then gave out a jeer covered heavily by static.

"Ha, well, while I do not support the malignant ways the workers are treated here, no entertainment, no artistic growth, I have no quarrels with Leviathan. You may pass." While the words themselves seemed passive, the slight exaggeration that permeated every word felt mocking.

Floyd took a step towards Roach and hoisted the moaning mess upon his shoulder. The torrential flow of hemolymph has now decreased to droplets and the casing surrounding the inside joints seemed to have recovered, at least partially. The first steps were difficult, Floyd's arms hurt under the weight of the cockroach's exoskeleton but it was as if Roach automatically adjusted himself, the weight going off of Floyd's shoulders. As the duo passed the crowds and entered the cast-iron gates, Floyd picked up one last chuckle out of the television.

"Good luck dealing with Astaroth and Pentious."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The TV demon's broadcasting will continue in the next chapter! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
